Dear Angel
by sallythedestroyerofworlds23
Summary: He comes every day, and plays the beautiful Music. If only I could reach him...but that door will always be there separating us.-AU-  Oneshot -IchiRuki-


**Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or the song "Dear Angel"**

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**I heard footsteps, and without a single doubt in my mind, I knew it was him.

I already knew by heart the specific sound of _his_ steps; and I knew before he did so that he would settle down directly on the other side of the wooden door that separated me from the outside world.

I kept sat with my back against the door, and I imagined I could feel him doing the same on the other side. The beginnings of a smile began to pull at my lips as was customary whenever he came; my heart began to beat faster with anticipation for what would inevitably come next.

The sound.

That beautiful sound that was like an angel's wings enveloping me in a heavenly warmth, and filling the dark space in these four walls with the sun's shining rays. Every time he came, he played that celestial sound. I remembered the first time I heard it, it brought tears to my eyes. Even now, I had to fight to control the moistening of my deprived orbs.

I couldn't remember a time when I was outside of these walls, not if I tried. I couldn't remember anything of the outside world, except the occasional platter of food brought in here through the small crack at the door. But even then, as lacking of sight as a blind man would have been, I could still picture beauty when I heard him play.

I asked once, how he made that beautiful sound, whispering through the crack of the door. He laughed in response. I remember hearing his laughter and being surprised at the sound, as alien to me as the sounds he created like an angel's wings. I also remember thinking the sound was out of place in this dark place; but feeling a strange sense of warmth inside me, despite the perennial cold temperature I lived in. I realized that I loved his laughter as much as I did the other beautiful sounds.

He also explained to me what the sounds were; he said it was called Music. I'd repeated the name to taste it on my tongue, and I had liked it. _Music_. I asked how he made this Music, and he said he used an instrument called a Guitar.

He tried to explain to me what this Guitar looked like; he said it was shaped like a pair, but was a smooth, polished brown coloring. Then he told me that it had six clear strings that stretched from the bottom of the Guitar to the very end of a long stick that protruded from the pear-shaped body. These strings were tensed, and when he ran his fingers over them, they produced sounds. I asked if that was how he made Music; he'd told me that it wasn't that easy. He'd said there were specific ways to make the sounds to make it Music. I found it hard to understand, but he'd tried to explain to me by saying it was like a poet with words: anyone could speak the words, but it took a special way of using them to make them beautiful and poetic. I understood a little better after that.

After that, I told him that he was a very great Music poet. Which caused him to laugh again. I realized, for some reason, that time, that his laughter was directed at me. It made me take offense, and I would have called him on it, except I couldn't. Because I loved hearing the sound too much. That was when I abruptly asked him why he didn't laugh more often. He'd gone silent at that, and after a while I figured he wouldn't answer, so I settled for telling him that I liked the sound. I asked if it was Music also, and then he didn't laugh. But still, for some reason, I imagined his lips pulling upwards, the same way mine did whenever I heard him.

We didn't speak for some time after that, but he had kept coming almost every day. On the days when he didn't come, at first I would always feel disappointed. But then I felt fear; fear that he would never come again. I hated those days. And one time, as I listened contently to him play as I always did, I spoke of my fears. The Music had stopped abruptly, and I pictured his fingers, which would be long and calloused, lingering in stillness just over the clear strings. Then he'd spoken; he told me that I should never fear that. He promised that he would always come back, no matter what. And I never believed anything so strongly in my life. The fear went away after that.

As the countless days went by, I found myself thinking of this man even when he wasn't just on the other side of the door. I wanted more than to hear his Music, I wanted to feel _him_. Even though I could never see him, whenever he was there, I felt different. I felt the sun shining on my face and warming my heart; I felt the playful breeze dancing on my skin and ruffling my dark hair; I felt the bright green grass tickle my bare feet gently. Even though I had no real memory of any of these things, for inside my four walls, all I've ever truly known is the piercing dark and cold; as well as the hard, wet floor, and the smell of humidity and rodents and urine. But when he was here, or a door away, I felt as if I was outside. I was intoxicated with a feeling that constantly made my lips pull upwards and my eyes become filled with moisture. But most of all, it made the organ that beat in my chest pound harder and with a vivacity that had been unknown to me before.

I wished to thank him for all this, but I had no idea how.

And then I wanted to see him; just for a moment. I knew, though he was right beside me every day, that I could never open that door that kept me from seeing him and feeling him. I caught glimpses of him, through the crack at the door where food was delivered to me; I'd seen brown eyes filled with a warm summer's caress, I'd seen sun kissed skin that radiated heat, I'd seen bright orange hair that was like the shining rays of the sun. But I still never fully saw him, and I had to content myself with these glimpses.

One day I'd asked him if he could sing. He'd muttered something incomprehensible in response, and then continued to play. I pushed the crack of the door open with my small white fingers and tried to peek at him. Then I'd asked him to sing. I hadn't thought he was someone who did things because they were told to, I still didn't think he was. And I hadn't expected him to do as I asked…But he did. And then I was fully convinced that he must have been an angel; for no mortal could possess that voice which stirred so much within me with just a note.

And so, without my having to ask, he'd sang from the on. He would always play his enchanting Music, but it was now accompanied by his angelic voice, making a combination that made my heart soar through the heavens. Sometimes, I would even join him in song. After a while of listening to him, I had begun to learn some of the lyrics of his favorite songs, and I would often close my eyes and join my voice with his. With my back pressed against the door and my eyes shut, I could imagine we were sitting together -no door between us-, singing under the sun. It was these moments that brought me the only happiness I had ever, and would ever, know.

Now, I listened to him again. His beautiful voice faded away slowly with a final note played on his Guitar. It was only a short moment before his fingers began producing more Music, this time a sound that was slower; one that brought happiness and sadness all at the same time. Then his voice began to sing, a song he often did and I knew very well. Soon enough, we were both singing as one.

_Dear angel of mine, _

_Where do I start to express how I feel? _

_Well, my love's gone blind. _

_Now all that I feel is what I hear. _

_Your words rip and tear, _

_and Through my heart so weak and pure. _

_Now I find myself wanting to die _

_I bleed for the second time tonight_

_ Holding the love that's in my mind. _

_If only my love could be with you._

_ If only this pain, this pain died too _

_So I break you away, away, away from me. _

_As I sit here alone_

_ Thinking about everything that you said._

_ You know since I'm alone. _

_Well, maybe after all, I was better off dead._

_ Cause without you my life's gone down..._

_ What do I do, when I find myself wanting to die?_

_ I bleed for the second time tonight _

_Holding the love that's in my mind. _

_If only my love could be with you. _

_If only this pain, this pain died too _

_I bleed for the second time tonight _

_Holding the love that's in my mind. _

_If only my love could be with you. _

_If only this pain, this pain died too_

_ I break you away, away, away from me. _

_And I don't know I'll break you away! _

_Said, I'll break you away, away, away from me. _

_Sincerely Yours…_

As we drifted into silence together, I felt an aching pulling in my chest. I wanted, yearned so badly to reach out to him…If only that door wasn't there.

I felt the need to reach him take over my whole being, I felt like it would tear me apart if I didn't touch him.

So, wordlessly, and before he could begin playing again, I turned around, so my back was no longer to the door. Then I shoved the crack of the door as far open as it would go -which wasn't much-, and decidedly thanking my hands for being so thin, I snaked one hand through the narrow opening, pushing it until I felt the different air of outside the walls.

I didn't have to speak or say anything; I felt something brush my hand. I felt warmth like no other, the heat of human contact, of my flesh being touched. Even if I hadn't known him t be just outside, I would have recognized his touch. It was shy, at first, the tips of his fingers only hesitantly brushing the pale skin over my hand. I felt the callousness of his fingers, just as I'd imagined, and I knew his hands were much larger than mine just by the feel of his fingertips. Still, the short contact sent a tingling sensation through me; it was like a current that started where his skin touched mine, and extended through my body, finally settling in the middle of my chest, where I felt that familiar pounding increase until I could almost hear it out loud.

Then he got bolder. He settled his whole, large palm over mine, enveloping it in his warmth, as testing the connection. A moment later, he took my hand into his completely. I felt my tiny hand disappear in the embrace of his, the warmth of him filling me with a feeling -not unlike happiness, like his Music caused, but different as well. It was like that happiness, mixed with that awful aching longing to cross the door that kept him so far from me, and something else; something that sent shivers through my body that had nothing to do with the cold. This last one was the most alien of all to me, yet it combined with the others in making me relish that small contact like an old man stranded in the dessert relishes a glass of water. I felt myself tighten my grip on his hand, to which he responded by squeezing mine in a similar manner. I felt the cold, moist wood of the door against my forehead -When had I pressed my forehead against the door?- , and with closed eyes which I did not remember shutting, I leaned forward and concentrated on _feeling_ him; on hearing his low breaths, the beating of his heart as fast as mine, the warmth he exuded…Everything about him. I never wanted to let go.

The next day when he came, he didn't settle down, or play, or sing. I only knew it was him because I recognized his steps and his very presence. He kneeled down, and sneaking a peek through the crack, I caught a glimpse of his smoldering amber eyes. He didn't say a word as he slipped a single, folded piece of parchment through the crack; then he was gone.

I hastened to open it, and though reading without light proved difficult, my eyes were well-accustomed to the darkness, and I was able to read the single sentence he'd written me.

_Wait for me at dawn._

And I did. How I knew when the time was, it was hard to tell. I could only judge time by his visits and the times when I was fed, so I had a vague idea of time; I kept a special attention to it until said time came.

I had slipped his message in my bodice, more than once letting my hand settle over the place where I kept it as I anxiously awaited him.

Just before dawn -an hour or so, perhaps- I heard footsteps, but not the ones I had been waiting for.

Then, the door opened.

I shielded my eyes immediately as they burned painfully with a light that they hadn't been exposed to since I had memory. Though it was painful to do so, I forced myself to look through the shadow of my arm to see who had opened the door which had been immobile for so long.

I'd already known it wouldn't be him, but a faint hope had still fluttered weakly in my chest; I only realized that when I felt that hope die as I saw the man.

He had cold silver hair, eyes that remained tightly shut, and his lips splitting his face in a mockery of a smile that sent chills down my spine.

His words, however, were what made my heart drop to the floor. And not because I dreaded my fate, nor because I was afraid or saddened by it. I was merely torn apart because, I realized then, that just as _he_ and I had always been close enough to touch but always kept away by the wooden door; we were now only an hour from being together at last, but a mere few words spoken by the silver-haired man would keep us away just as the door had before.

I felt the moisture fall upon my cheeks as my hand went up again to the place where his note rested right next to my heart in every sense. I closed my eyes and hoped he could somehow know how sorry I was, and thanked him for having been the source of the greatest happiness I ever knew.

The silver-haired man's words echoed around me once more.

"_Miss Kuchiki, I am here to escort you to your execution now."_

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**A/N: This story is the random product of a random thought I had while I was thinking of what I would write for my new stories Picture Perfect and Beyond the Horizon. I'll update those between this week and the next. For now...enjoy this random piece of randomness. I exort you to review if you wish it.**


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